


catgut blues (suture up my future)

by butt_muncher_seven



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier gets hurt and then he gets to third base, M/M, Overuse of italics, Revelations, cw stitches, generous interpretations of medieval medical practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22690576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butt_muncher_seven/pseuds/butt_muncher_seven
Summary: Jaskier got stabbed. It happens. Not to him, generally, but he supposed it was only a matter of time.He'd been - notgoodprecisely - but he certainly didn't deserve to getstabbed, and while the attention is nice he definitely doesn't deserve Geralt poking him and prodding at all his secrets.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 630





	catgut blues (suture up my future)

**Author's Note:**

> Wound care is something that can actually be so intimate.

It started, as so many things do, with a rumour. The fabulous treasure of a forgotten Elven prince, one of their greatest troubadours was (rumour had it) being sought by that limp-dick _fop_ Valdo Marx. And what _he_ was doing out of doors Jaskier had no idea but he still owed him a bad turn or three after the incident in Vizima. Some reliable tittle tattle had tipped Jaskier off, and he'd left the moment he could to try and beat his rival to it.

He’d convinced Geralt to come along mainly by describing the potential dangers and then leaving on his own. Geralt had caught up to him within the hour. 

There were definite signs of Elven inhabitation in the area, although that could be said of half the continent. Trees and moss had grown over and through a decaying complex of crumbling pillars and ailing brickwork. It was, all in all, very promising.

And then Geralt got distracted by a witcher clan marking carved into a decaying archway. 

“Don’t wander off,” he commanded, wandering off himself. 

Jaskier should’ve probably, by then, known better than to disobey the witcher, but he hadn’t come all this way to just stand around when legends lay nearby. Loads of clues were lying all around him, he didn’t have to go far to look. The woods were empty as a crypt, and standing alone was so _boring_..

The first thing that went wrong was that there wasn’t any treasure to be found anywhere. All the chests and boxes he found were broken through long ago, dust gathering dust in a distant forest. The second thing that went wrong was that his foot dropped deep into a very well disguised spike trap. It was masterfully dug, totally undetectable - even Geralt might have missed it, and it was in no way his fault that he was abruptly and unavoidably _stuck_. He tried to pull his leg out but there were some very sharp stakes pressed against his skin that made it seem unwise, so he went with his standard fallback plan: he shouted for Geralt.

The third thing that went wrong was that a small group of ruffians dropped out of the trees. Jaskier tried to yank his leg out harder, resulting only in a good of pain and him overbalancing and falling to one knee. Fear knocked the voice from his throat. A tall man in well-made armour walked towards him, heavy sword unsheathed.

“Finally. Thought you might never arrive. Stop thrashing, alright?” He smacked the flat of his blade hard against Jaskier’s thigh. The bard stopped trying to free himself. “You are Julian Pancratz, also known as Dandelion, Jaskier and the Bard-Viscount of Lettenhov and Oxenfort?”

This was a trap Jaskier recognized immediately.

“Gentlemen, please,” He said, skirting the question, “I’m sure there’s an arrangement we can come to. For example - my family has a sizeable bounty on my _living_ head, I could help you collect it..”

“Already been paid quite well, I’m afraid.” The assassin pushed his sword against Jaskier’s chest, driving him back to the ground quite successfully and then driving the sword a little further. He cried out in pain and not a little fear.

The assassin adjusted his grip to one better suited for driving a sword through someone’s heart. “Check his lute, it’s described rather thoroughly.”

“Yeah, that’s him alright.” Said someone behind him. _Fuck._

“I’m supposed to read this first,” The tall assassin gave Jaskier a look that was almost apologetic, like a coachman embarrassed by his lord.

He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and read, “Jaskier Pancratz, so-called bard, know now, in the moments before your death, that you have been defeated by Valdo Marx. You are a wastrel, a buffoon, and a rake, and the world of music shall be the better for your passing.”

The tall assassin tucked the letter away. “Any last words of apology or recognition?” 

“Apology or recognition!? For that puling halfwit?” He was aware that he was about to be executed but his fear had been quite superseded by pure outrage. Another assassin appeared to be scribbling down his words.

“That pompous hack can’t beat me himself so he sends a pair of thugs to just fucking _kill_ me? You can tell him, from me, that he’s a cowardly ass whose braying is only tolerated in court because his daddy pays them, _and-”_

It was at this point that Geralt got back.

He had clearly charged through the underbrush to reach them, twigs and leaves broken off in his hair. His expression is thunderous as he took in the assassins, the Jaskier on the ground with a sword to his chest.

The assassins, like all idiots with swords Geralt seemed to meet, did not look especially intimidated.

“Kill him,” the tall assassin said easily, gripping his sword like he meant to finish the job now. _Actual professionals_ , Jaskier marveled as his mind went blank with panic.

“ _No!”_ Geralt roared, casting _aard_ and charging towards him. The tall assassin was blasted backwards, caught completely off guard, though he hung onto his sword. It did him little good.

Geralt kicked his sword away and ran the assassin through. The breastplate meant he’d had to go for a belly wound, unlikely to kill him _immediately_ , so Geralt yanked his sword free and slashed the man’s throat. 

It was testament to how long he’d travelled with Geralt that all Jaskier felt as the assassin died was relief. 

The other assassins, still too dumb to run, squared off with Geralt. What followed was a quick, brutal dance that ended precisely as Jaskier knew it would.

Geralt spun at the one, knocking his sword aside with a powerful strike. The man staggered back, but Geralt followed, keeping inside his guard. He whipped an elbow up and smashed the man in the face. There was a sickening crunch as the man’s nose broke, blood pouring out of his nostrils.

Jaskier cried out in alarm as the other assassin made use of Geralt’s distraction. He drove a sword at Geralt’s unguarded side, catching him closer than Jaskier expected. Geralt turned away from the strike, surely lessening the damage somewhat. It was a good hit, but the assassin had overcommitted slightly, even Jaskier could see it, leaving his whole left flank exposed. Geralt struck with brutal speed and strength, cutting the man’s arm off in a single blow. He followed up with a rapid cross-body sweep that sent the assassin’s head flying. Even for Geralt, it was gory.

The last assassin tried to repeat his friend’s attack, charging in while Geralt’s back was turned, but he had even less luck. Bloodied and demoralized, his strike was poor. Geralt cut him down with jaw-dropping efficiency. It was amazing to watch; indeed, Jaskier never got tired of watching him fight. He looked like something out of legends, standing strong and blood spattered among the bodies of his enemies. His steel sword glinted in the light of day. 

Geralt paused only a second to catch his breath, practiced eye scanning the fallen for lingering signs of life. Finding none, he rushed to Jaskier’s side.

“Where did they hurt you?” Geralt tore the neck Jaskier’s doublet askew, clearly aware of the answer. His eyes were wilder than they should be - had he taken Cat before bursting into the fight?

“Just there.” Jaskier panted, somehow breathing harder than Geralt even though he had mostly been lying down the entire fight. 

“Hmm.” Geralt pressed a wad of cloth painfully hard against Jaskier’s wound. “Is your leg broken?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Pain made his voice weak and strange. 

Geralt dug at his trapped leg for a moment. Jaskier took the opportunity to inspect the assassin who’d fallen nearby. They had been well disguised - clothing covered in leaves, pine sap disguising their scent. How much had Valdo paid for this? He’d always known the man was a sore loser. Perhaps Jaskier shouldn’t have discouraged the Baroness de Knorre’s interest in patronizing him so publicly. 

Geralt snatched the assassin’s sword up from the forest floor and used it to carefully leverage the stakes away from his leg. It didn’t _seem_ like they’d bitten too deeply into his skin, although his lower leg throbbed with pain all the same. 

“Are there going to be more traps?” He asked, considering their options.

“Probably.” Geralt grunted. “We should head back the way we came.”

With a measured twist Geralt pried the stakes loose on one side of the trap. Carefully, he gripped Jaskier’s calf and guided his leg from the boot itself. Now empty, Jaskier easily yanked the boot from the pit as well. He appraised it with a critical eye, disappointed. Perhaps the damage could be covered with buttons?

“Come on, bard.” Geralt slung one of Jaskier’s arms around his massive shoulders and helped him to stand. Everything hurt significantly more as he stood up.

“Ouch, agh, _shit_! If I see that _putrified_ excuse for a piper again I am going to _kill him_ . Valdo Marx will _rue_ this very day.” Jaskier promised vehemently.

Geralt, helpfully, said nothing. He was, even more helpfully, half-supporting half-carrying Jaskier away from the battlefield. Site of the trap. The most cowardly attempt at ambition Jaskier had survived yet. 

“I’m not doing your treasure hunts anymore.” Geralt ground out, very unhelpfully. 

“I suppose that’s fair. Actually, that reminds me, how are _you_ doing fine? I know witchers are famously invulnerable but I’m pretty sure I saw you get stabbed.”

“I was.”

Jaskier glanced down at Geralt’s torso and oh, yep. That was a stab wound alright.

“How are your organs… not falling out of you.” 

Geralt snorted.

“It’s not that big a stab wound. It was mostly blocked by my ribs. Can’t you smell it?”

They had reached a nice wide tree they could shelter under around the bend from the battlefield. Jaskier was about to reply with some amount of outrage, perhaps an explanation of what a person could smell, or maybe that he wouldn’t know what a serious stab wound smelled like, when Geralt dumped him on the ground. Or, well, gently set him down with a genuinely impressive degree of care and muscular control, but with considerably less tenderness than Jaskier wanted.

“Oh, gods, Geralt, am I going to die? I’m probably not going to die right? If I die and that twat Valdo writes some limerick about my death I’m going to come back as an entirely new form of monster and kill him.”

“You’re not going to die.” Geralt said, with a calming certainty offset somewhat by the tension in his face. “We just need to prevent sepsis from setting in.”

Geralt whistled for Roach as he put his swords down within careful reaching distance.

“Open your doublet fully.” 

Jaskier tried, but his fingers were slippery with blood and uncharacteristically clumsy.

“Geralt-” He started, frightened, but the witcher cut him off.

“It’s just the shock. It makes finer muscular control difficult. Lie back.” 

Jaskier watched in some interest as the witcher pulled out a knife and cut through his laces. Geralt’s face was coloured with gore and grime, cut through with flashes of white tooth when he snarled at a particularly tough section. It was, honestly, more care than Jaskier felt the ruined doublet merited - he wasn’t sure this one even _could_ be repaired. The pieces of his doublet lay about him like the wrappings of a parcel.

“Do you think this is what game feels like, when it’s being butchered?” He asked, when it felt like it had been too long without someone saying anything. 

The look Geralt shot him, part fond, part incredulous, was enough to keep going. 

Jaskier watched with detached fascination as Geralt reached in where his chemise was cut through and simply tore the garment in half.

“I mean I’ve been undressed before in a more.. sexy manner, but this is more like you’re - ow - shelling me.”

Geralt grunted an apology.

“Keep putting pressure here.” Geralt pressed Jaskier’s hand against the long gash on his own chest. Geralt had freed Jaskier quite thoroughly of his clothing, though he was apparently to be allowed the faint dignity of keeping his trousers on. He shivered in the cold. Geralt quickly ran hands over Jaskier’s arms and torso, the sides of his neck, his head, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“Is this a magic thing? I definitely didn’t get hurt _there_.” 

“You can’t always tell.” Geralt pulled his other boot off, quickly inspecting Jaskier’s toes. “Does any part of your body feel numb?” 

“I feel _cold.._ Are you sure you needed to cut my hose off?” 

Geralt ran his hands brusquely over Jaskier’s legs, disturbing the downy hairs in a way that prickled unpleasantly. 

“I definitely didn’t - oh, would you look at that, he did get my leg.” Jaskier felt the pain of the injury only now that Geralt’s hand came away bloody. He vaguely remembered landing on something sharp. The welt where the assasin’s sword had whacked him promised the bruise heavily too, as did most of his calf. By tomorrow his usually creamy legs would be a riot of blue and purple. A pity too - besides his eyes they were his best feature. And yet, despite the blood rolling down his thigh and despite the shapeliness of his calves, Geralt seemed more preoccupied with probing the wound further.

“That one won’t need stitches.” He concluded, finally.

“As in, the other one _will?”_

The witcher grunted. He translated this as a _yes_.

“I’ve never had stitches before.“ Jaskier mused, covering for the sick feeling of dread he felt. “I suppose it will lend credibility to my work. I don’t think I’ve sung about what it feels like to be stabbed. I’m not sure anyone has, really. Do you think it’s an untapped topic?”

Geralt dug through Roach’s saddle bags, pulling out all kinds of gear. He looked genuinely thoughtful.

“I don’t know a lot about songs.” Geralt said finally. 

Jaskier tried to repair that ignorance as best he could while the witcher did a lot of things that weren’t directly related to fixing Jaskier. He started a pot of water boiling. He scrubbed at his hands, rinsing blood and dirt from them with deliberate thoroughness. Then seemed to be making _tea_ , of all things, out of vinegar and wine and celandine flowers - a potion perhaps? And the turmeric he was grating into honey - a poultice? More arcane practices to be documented - Jaskier trailed off, reaching instead for his notebooks. 

Geralt tried to snatch them out of his hands.

“Stop that. You need to keep pressure on your chest.” 

Jaskier dodged him expertly by stretching to the side and promptly spasming in pain. Geralt gently pulled Jaskier back into a more comfortable position. There was a _look,_ but he did let him keep his notebook, which was worth it. The witcher took over the duty of trying to keep the blood _inside_ his skin.

“What are you doing now?” Jaskier was having trouble writing around the large, warm hand Geralt was pressing to the wound on his bare chest. Geralt did not attempt to make this easier for him.

He also didn’t seem inclined to reply, focussed on doing his work one-handed. Jaskier tried to take notes on what he could observe - boiling an old linen shirt, setting out alchemical ingredients, diluting some of the dwarven spirits Geralt distilled himself and consistently refused to let Jaskier drink.

“Can I drink some now?”

“No.”

Geralt set the old shirt soup aside and waited for it to cool. He had apparently run out of preparations. When he wasn’t busy doing something the moment felt.. Weirder. 

“Can I have some _non_ -dwarven spirits?” Jaskier asked, to break the silence.

“No.”

Geralt tested the boiled concoction with a finger and withdrew it quickly.

“Why can’t I? I’m injured, I need to forget my troubles.” 

Jaskier looked up at Geralt balefully. The Witcher really was very tall, at least torso-wise. Lying just barely propped up by the tree really highlighted the fact. From this angle Jaskier could hardly see his big white head past his gigantic shoulder. Not to mention his beautifully muscled forearm, currently engaged in pinning him to the ground. Jaskier traced the path of a thick vein as it rose up over the hard-banded muscle of his forearm with a finger.

“Jaskier!” The witcher jumped.

“Are you dehydrated?” Jaskier asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Am I - probably, I don’t know.”

“Well, you should drink then. Can’t have both of us out of commission.” 

Geralt tested the water again. He seemed satisfied.

“I’ll be fine. Move your hand.” 

Jaskier pulled away, eager to document what came next. The Witcher gently pried his hand off of Jaskier’s chest, using warm water where blood had dried and stuck them together. Jaskier was surprised by his patience. 

The stab wound, when revealed, still bled slowly. Geralt grunted, shaking his head.

“What does that mean?” Jaskier demanded.

“I was right.” 

Jaskier tried to look at his own chest without moving overmuch.

“Is it going to hurt?” He asked, watching Geralt rinse his hands with alcohol. “It is right? This is definitely going to hurt.” 

“It’s better than it sounds.” Geralt wiped his chest clean with what might have been a sleeve torn off the boiled shirt. “When the needle’s sharp.” He added, unnecessarily.

“Oh.” Jaskier watched Geralt squeeze bloody water out of the rag, then wet it again with the vinegar concoction.

“One moment, this might sting.” 

“Oh, this might st- _OW.”_ Geralt shushed him gently and continued cleaning around the wound with the horrible, stinging cloth. He was, in fairness, evidently trying to be careful. Jaskier’s skin felt hot and raw in the cloth’s wake, boding ill for the actual suturing stage of things.

“This will go better if you help hold the wound closed - give me your hands?” Jaskier proffered them obediently. “Hm.”

Though not _as_ filthy as the Witcher’s had been, Jaskier could admit his hands had looked cleaner. As vulnerable and childlike as this whole being-injured thing made him feel, he wasn’t prepared for Geralt to take each of his hands in turn and wipe them clean. He was gentle, thorough, rubbing between the fingers, under his nails. Jaskier found himself holding his breath for reasons he didn’t fully understand. His skin prickled with the weight of Geralt’s focussed gaze. 

At last, Geralt gave his hands back.

“Here, rinse them off with this first.” The Witcher handed him the dwarven spirits, his tone all business. The moment passed.

Jaskier then had the difficult task of rinsing his hands off while lying down, while keeping his chest still, while letting Geralt poke and prod at the wound. He seemed to be trying to flush it clean, although it was a futile task what with blood welling up constantly to fill it. Jaskier made the mistake of looking down and felt ill. The gaping little mouth in his chest was so _unnatural_ looking. Creatures weren’t meant to know what was inside them, he decided.

“I thought we were trying to keep more of my blood _in_.”

“You’ll thank me when you don’t have rotting bits of shirt stuck inside you.” Geralt muttered, bent on his task. “There. Now it’s your turn to help.”

Geralt plucked the alcohol neatly from his grasp just as he was about to taste it.

“Try to sort of - push the sides of the wound in, like so- No.” Geralt gently moved Jaskier’s hands better into place, pressing their fingers in together.

Jaskier wanted to cry, kind of, and he wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps because this was more tenderness than Jaskier had perhaps ever experienced Or perhaps he was just frightened, although he’d been more afraid earlier when the stupid ambush had been bearing down on them. 

“I’m going to start now, alright? This will hurt, but it’ll make you feel better in the long run.” Geralt had the needled threaded and his stupid warm eyes were holding his hostage. Jaskier nodded, not sure what his voice would give away if he tried to use it.

“Oh, and - don’t bite your tongue.” 

Jaskier clenched his teeth and looked away. 

It was simultaneously worse and better than he’d feared. 

The needle digging into his flesh hurt, but not as much as he’d expected. A slight stinging, nothing more - far worse was the tugging of the thread behind it. A sensation so unfamiliar, so unnatural it nearly had his stomach in open rebellion. He squeezed his eyes shut, focussed on the cool air entering his lungs, in and out, in and out, trying to ignore the strong smell of alcohol all around him. Thankfully, the danger of openly vomiting passed. With mild surprise, he began to realize that Geralt was talking. 

“.. and that’s what my training master, Vesemir always said: the pain’s always less when you know it’s helping you. I thought it was just because it wasn’t _surprising_ you, that it's only better because you know where it’s going to start and where it’s going to end, but I found…” 

Despite his interest, Jaskier found himself kind of tuning out Geralt’s words again, just hanging onto the steady warmth of his voice. There was a rushing in his ears. It made it difficult to hear. At least he didn’t have to do anything; all he could do was push his skin together and let Geralt take care of him. He was entirely at Geralt’s mercy, and he found to his surprise that he didn’t mind that much. It was an alright place to be. If only Geralt’s hands didn’t bump against his so, he could spend an eternal moment in this place, this strangely peaceful place. There was a rushing in his ears. There was a meditative quality to the pain, to the methodical tying of his flesh back into itself. Of red muscle, black thread. And oh there was a _rushing_ in his ears, growing stronger and stronger as he let his body sink down into the earth, Geralt’s steady warm voice reaching him from very far away until he could no longer hear it. The world became a shadowed inversion of itself, black on black, inhabited by dreams that shifted constantly into new shapes. It was a good feeling, but for how his stomach turned, and for the sharp stinging pain on his cheeks and _why_ was it so _bright-_

“Julian!” His first name. Geralt was holding his face between his hands, looking into his eyes from so, so close up. 

“There you are.” He could feel Geralt's breath on his face. Geralt’s voice was so deep, so sharply relieved it hurt to hear. His hands were warm. “You’re alright, you only fainted for a little bit. Could you hear me calling you?”

He hadn’t heard. Jaskier shivered, annoyed. There was a terrible crick in his neck and he was so goddamn cold. Geralt’s hands cupped his face, large and comforting. His hands were warm.

“Sorry for hitting you.” Geralt was saying. His hands were warm. 

“I’ve finished stitching this one- “ Jaskier looked down to see a neat line of dark stitches marching down his wound. “- but I wanted to take a look at the cut on your thigh. Are you cold?”

He was. He wasn’t having fun anymore. The novelty of being injured had worn off and he felt dreadfully tired. Geralt’s gaze was at once sympathetic and unyielding. 

Geralt’s face disappeared for a bit but he pulled Jaskier up into more of a sitting-type arrangement. Jaskier wished he was helping more.

“Lean against me.” Geralt commanded, and Jaskier decided he’d obey. The witcher’s body was stunningly warm, shedding so much heat that even the air around him felt warmer. The bare skin of Geralt’s neck burned where Jaskier’s face mashed against it. The meaty, rusty smell of blood was weaker here, chased away by the Witcher’s own scent. Sweat and clean skin, Jaskier’s own humid breath, the strange _fresh_ smell of magic; all enveloped him. He felt.. safe.

Jaskier jumped slightly when cold poultice was placed against the wound. Geralt chuckled, damn him, the sound reverberating through his chest. Jaskier almost bit him in reprimand, but that wasn't his right. He bit his lip instead. The small sharpness of that pain leant him clarity. He contemplated pullingback slightly, holding his own weight, letting cool air breeze between them, but. He didn't.

“Almost done.” Geralt said, reaching past him, nearly an embrace. 

Jaskier held himself together by strength of will. Geralt wound bandages around him, or rather - Geralt held a precious fold of clean bandage against his chest and secured it with a long and winding strip of cloth cut from old pants. The gentle indignity of it tugged at Jaskier’s heart so that he had to laugh. 

“This can’t possibly be proper medical procedure.” He sniggered. It felt good.

Geralt smiled as he passed the makeshift bandage around behind Jaskier’s back.

“I wouldn’t know, I’m usually passed out for this part.” Jaskier heard the lazy smile in his voice. “You’re lucky I remember how to do human medicine.”

“Hold on a moment, just let me-” The Witcher growled in frustration as he tied a knot behind Jaskier’s back mostly by feel. He leaned in, tucking his chin over his shoulder, hugging Jaskier in all but intent. It was excruciatingly difficult to let the moment happen, not to lean in, not to memorize the tantalizing feeling of Geralt's arms around him. 

“There. You'll most likely want to sleep on your side..” 

Geralt leant back to inspect his handiwork, frowning slightly. Jaskier wanted to kiss the uncertain creases on his face. He wanted, helplessly, to see his feelings mirrored on Geralt's face, but the witcher didn't even meet his eye.

Geralt tugged gently at the fabric wrapping his chest, running a careful finger under an edge.

“How does it feel?"

His heart was being wrenched in two but surprisingly, his chest felt good. Sore, but - clean. Well cared for. Jaskier told him as much.

"I think you could have a career as a surgeon, if slaying foul monsters and saving dashing bards ever gets old." He added, mostly to see if that proud little smile on Geralt's face could get any wider. It could.

Apparently satisfied, Geralt pulled back, taking in Jaskier’s half-naked form. The wind blew, gently, but cold enough on Jaskier’s bare skin to make him huddle in on himself. Perhaps he could wear the sleeves of his doublet and make a sort of tunic out of a blanket…

“Here.” Geralt shrugged out of his own jacket and held it out. Jaskier would have refused it for a number of reasons - the unfairness, the terrible fit, the smell - but for how Geralt wouldn’t quite meet his eye. The casual gallantry of the gesture seemed to embarrass the witcher, the moment growing awkward the longer the jacket remained proffered between them.

“Thank you.” Jaskier said simply.

The Witcher's face was unreadable when he shrugged it over his shoulders. It carried the heat of Geralt's body with it. It was heavy too, weighed down with hardened leather and metal plating, but the smell of old linen and sweat-soaked padding was not as offensive as he’d feared. 

What was alarming was the massive red stain painted across Geralt’s chest, his shirt hiding what was surely a grievous injury.

“Geralt!” He cried, hastening to inspect the wound. “Are you- have you been bleeding out this whole time? Why would you be, I mean, fuck _me_ I’m just the bard here. If _you_ die…” 

Jaskier tried to pull Geralt’s shirt up or off, damn the pain in his chest, but Geralt firmly pulled his hands away.

“I’ll be fine - Jaskier!” 

Jaskier struggle against his grip, refusing to give up. He wasn't even as strong as a human should be but he had _will_ , damn it, and drive counted for something. He didn't gain much ground, per se, but he wasn't _losing_ , exactly.

“You can’t just treat yourself like this, Geralt! You great - pigheaded bastard, you, let me take care of you!”

“Fine!” Geralt released his grip and let Jaskier pitch forward, a gesture which was undercut when the witcher caught him before he could smack into his knee.

Geralt pushed him back upright, taking in his mulish expression. He sighed.

“You can take a look.” Geralt turned Jaskier’s face until he met his eyes. “But I’m wrapping your other injuries first.”

Seemed fair.

"So how do you want.." 

And then Geralt was maneuvering Jaskier forward onto his lap, like a child about to be spanked, which was undignified, true, but it wasn’t precisely _uncomfortable_. It was warmer, certainly, though Geralt’s thigh digging into his lower abdomen. He could feel Geralt carefully prodding at the cut on his leg, somewhere on the back of his thigh amid flesh that felt terribly bruised and tender. 

He forcefully, violently ignored the soft touch of Geralt’s hands spreading ointment onto his thigh. He was gently working some oil or another into the tender skin of his leg and it was overwhelmingly difficult to passively accept. His fool heart yearned to ruin this, to blindly kiss every inch of Geralt’s bare skin, Especially when he shifted the hem of Jaskier’s trousers upwards, ever so slightly. When he ran the edge of a finger under the hem Jaskier thought her might faint again from sheer arousal. as he massaged the ointment in.

And oh, heaven help him, Geralt was lifting his leg up to wrap it in bandages, like he weighed nothing, like he could easily arrange Jaskier's body entirely to his pleasing. He felt the stretch through his hip, stunned by the unfairness of it all. Was he not trying to keep his crush to himself? Had he not behaved appropriately at every turn? And yet the universe delighted in taunting him.

Jaskier fought to keep his breathing normal, _in_ and _out_ like a normal person did, until it was over.

Geralt rested a hand on Jaskier’s thigh, apparently finished with his ministrations. 

“Am I well again?” He asked, proud of how casual and unaffected he sounded.

“Hm.” 

“Splendid.” He twisted around, exceptionally graceful as always, until he was sitting beside Geralt’s lap rather than lying over it. “Now, I believe, it is your turn.”

Geralt’s expression was - frustrated? Impatient? The one he got when Jaskier wanted to stay _just for one more drink, just one more_ and it was late and he was cranky but he didn't want to leave him behind either.

But, as it happened, when he rested his head on Geralt's shoulder he couldn't really see Geralt's face, so there.

Jaskier considered, briefly, getting up and conducting his medicine in a more professional posture, but he was slightly winded and dizzy just from rolling over and really, he could reach everything he needed from here. 

And _then_ Geralt was opening up his shirt, and _oh,_ he could feel the heat rising off his skin, the smell of sweat and fresh magic and clean skin enveloping him. But also - blood. 

Quite a lot of blood, actually, all _iron_ and _warm meat_ , an amount that would trouble any reasonable person, trickling down his side unimpeded now by cloth. Jaskier peered in to get a better look at the gash. It stretched a palm’s width across his ribs, reaching hard for the softer tissue of his abdomen. 

"How do you know if something needs stitches?"

"It doesn't."

"But how do you _know.”_

Geralt sighed. “It’s not that deep, the edges close easily, and most importantly - _you don’t know how do stitches._ ”

“Fair enough.”

“You can clean it with this.” The Witcher pressed a cold rag into his hand, face still all constipated looking. 

Dutifully Jaskier got to work. Fresh blood was still trickling out of Geralt’s side, he couldn’t just _ignore_ it, especially when this was all more or less his fault. Witchers were strong, yes, but they bled out the same as men did. And, he wasn’t convinced that Geralt would admit to needing help. With every slow inhalation, the wound welled up with blood. It had trickled even down to his belt, and _lord_ , the cut of his hips was enough to make a man weep. He longed to press his thumbs into the grooves of his pelvis, hold him in place and swallow the witcher’s cock until his nose was buried in the dark hair he could just see disappearing into his trousers..

Jaskier wrenched his mind back to the task at hand. Most of the old blood was off of Geralt’s skin, at least, and Jaskier was getting a better sense of the wound. Fortunately, for all of them really, It wasn’t as deep as he’d feared - he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing into his friend’s organs, honestly. If anything the wound seemed to be growing shallower by the minute, the blood flow gradually slowing of its own accord.

Geralt passed a small bottle to him filled with a candy-green ointment.

“That’s just a proliferation promoter, you can dab it around the wound.” 

Jaskier pulled out the cork, immediately disliking its harsh alchemical scent. Was that endrega venom he smelt?

"No, wait -" Abruptly, Geralt snatched the bottle back.

“Don’t touch that with your bare skin.” The Witcher seemed at a loss for what to say next. “It’s - kind of toxic for humans. Um, here, you can put - this on it.”

Geralt handed him the remains of the poultice he’d applied to Jaskier’s wounds. Did human medicine even work on witchers? Jaskier was beginning to suspect the witcher was merely placating him.

“Look, if you don’t need it-”

“I _said_ I didn’t need anything-”

“ _Fine_.” Jaskier frowned, but put the stupid poultice on him anyways. 

"Do you want -" Geralt started, but the rest of the question was bitten off. Just as well.

Jaskier could feel him watching as he inexpertly dabbed orange paste around the wound. It didn’t look better, exactly, but it did look _seen to_. Surprisingly few scars spanned the section of skin around it, all in all, given the mass of them around his chest and back - perhaps this wound wouldn’t even add to them. At last it seemed as thoroughly treated as it could be.

“Done.” He pronounced, satisfied. “Hand me some bandages.”

Geralt looked bemused as he watched Jaskier gently press clean bandaging over his handiwork. The poultice soaked into the bandaging immediately, faintly spotting with blood. 

“Hold this.” The bard said bossily, digging around for the rest of the torn pants to tie it all off with. 

He managed it, more or less, back still supported by Geralt’s thigh. It did not look as neat a job as Geralt had done on him, but then he was new at this. 

“Feel better?” Geralt asked drily.

"I do, actually." He thought for a moment. "Thanks."

"Hm."

Jaskier let himself linger on Geralt's shoulder a moment longer, mentally wrestling with the prospect of getting up. He was so tired. The fire warmed him from one side, Geralt from the other, his body a wonderful pillow compared to his usual rolled up cloak. 

But, he knew he'd have to leave. You couldn't lie on friends' bodies indefinitely, no matter how nice their thighs were. Especially, perhaps, when their thighs were this nice. He was only torturing himself, sitting here. Geralt shifted, reaching for something out of Roach's saddlebags, and Jaskier took it as his cue to heave himself up and leave.

"Wait." Geralt commanded, a hand on his shoulder holding him back. Jaskier paused, confused.

"Geralt?" He hated how uncertain his voice sounded.

"Don't get up yet. Let your body rest a bit longer." Geralt insisted roughly.

Completely, utterly unfair.

He forced himself to relax. Geralt pulled a blanket over his legs, easing the last bit of chill digging at his flesh.

It was - it was almost perfect. Jaskier shuffled around a bit all the same, trying to shift his bottom so that the ground felt less hard, doing his best not to rest his full weight against the witcher’s recovering body. He fidgeted, trying not to be a bother but -

Geralt sighed. 

"Sorry, is this - I'm just trying to get comfortable, could you maybe move your massive, gloriously muscular thigh?."

And then he was being lifted again, resettled so his back was to Geralt's front, lounging against the Witcher's chest. Like he weighed no more than a child. 

"This better?"

"Mhm." Was all he could say to that, reasonably. Geralt’s body caged him in from all sides, strong legs bracketing his own perfectly. He could feel the witcher’s voice as he spoke, reverberating low through his chest.

It was, certainly, more comfortable. And so, so much more dangerous.

"Your heart is beating too fast." Geralt frowned.

"It's fine." Jaskier grit out stiffly. 

Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier's forehead and gods damn him thrice, he flinched. A blind sow would have noticed it, and a witcher..

The hand was withdrawn immediately. There was a terrible, terrible silence. 

"I've made you nervous." Geralt said with awful calm. 

Jaskier curled in on himself mentally, pushing his hands against his eyes. Keeping secrets was always a timed game, a means of merely pushing back unpleasant moments. You could never avoid them indefinitely. And here the terrible moment was. Because as bad as the truth was, it wasn't worse than letting Geralt sound so terribly betrayed. He twisted out of Geralt’s lap far, far too late. The ground was cold and uncomfortable.

"I'm frightened of myself." He said quietly, dragging the words from his lips. He could feel the tension in Geralt's body, hear the confusion in his silence.

"Why-"

"Because I don't want to make it weird" He cut in, eager not to hear Geralt's questions, his realizations. "Between us, I mean. With you."

"Why would it be-"

"Because I can't control my _stupid_ feelings, or, I can, but hiding from you and your stupid witcher powers is fucking _impossible_."

"What _feelings_? Jaskier." He was, impossibly, still confused. You'd think a glut of superboosted senses would include an improved sense of tact, but no.

Jaskier took a deep breath and continued all in a rush.

" _Sexy_ type feelings, Geralt. _Romantic, kisses in the moonlight_ feeling. You don't - you don't have to say it's stupid, I know you don't feel the same as i do."

And oh, it turned out stunned silence following that little revelation _could_ hurt him, even knowing it was coming. He pressed on.

"Fuck, I mean - I'm not interesting to you, romantically, I _get_ that, and if I happen to love you that's just my problem to deal with -"

"Love?" Geralt was starting to sound like a fucking echo.

"Or, I mean, like, you know.." He waved a hand and trailed off, so, so eager for this conversation to be over.

Geralt looked at him with dreadful self-composure. Out of the corner of his eye, the only emotion Jaskier could really read on him was _intensity_. 

"You shouldn't love me." The man came up with. _What._

Sudden, blooming anger abruptly gave Jaskier the courage to look Geralt in the face again.

"The fuck I _shouldn't,"_ He began indignantly.

"You have a big heart. Give it to someone who can love you back." And just said it, with such finality, such _conviction_.

With a stunned breath Jaskier saw both the truth and the lie in perfect clarity. 

"But you _do._ You think this isn't love? Rescuing me, caring for me, wanting the best for me even if you can't give it?" Jaskier said, awestruck. “You love me, Geralt of Rivia. You can’t even help yourself.”

And Geralt - Geralt looked terrified. Like he wasn’t the bravest, strongest man Jaskier knew.

“You won’t love me for long. You’ll do _better_ than me, have a life that isn't - this,” He insisted, almost pleading.

Jaskier shuffled forward on his knees until he could take Geralt’s open, frightened face in his hands and oh, he wasn't hiding his emotions now.

“I’ve loved you for this long. I’ve loved a hundred people -”

“Then don't let me be one of them,” Geralt begged, and yet he was drawing Jaskier into his lap, pulling him closer, hands strong and warm on his waist. 

“- but I’ve always loved you the most.” 

Geralt hid his eyes by turning his face into Jaskier’s hand. He kissed his palm. Jaskier allowed it for a moment. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, voice rougher than he’d expected, drawing his hand away.

Geralt leaned in and kissed him so sweetly it left him breathless. Geralt ran a hand against Jaskier’s bare stomach, impossibly erotic; a shiver of pleasure ran through his soul. And when he pulled back the look Geralt gave him was so vulnerable, so achingly tender that Jaskier could only press in and kiss him harder. He wound his hands around Geralt’s open collar, dragging him closer with what _had_ to be too much force, but Geralt made a sound almost like a whine and _fuck_ he had to chase that forever. 

Clumsily, he readjusted his seat so he was straddling the witcher’s legs. He wanted to ride him like a pony, _fuck_ . This close, he could grind against Geralt’s crotch easily and he took advantage of that. If he rolled his hips _just so_ their barely-clothed cocks aligned beautifully, drawing a soft moan out of Geralt’s stubborn throat. 

And then, _damn him_ , Jaskier twisted too far and his wound lanced hot agony across his skin.

He flinched and Geralt, damn him too, pulled back. 

“You’re injured.” Geralt reminded him, unhelpfully. “We shouldn’t do this now-”

Jaskier kissed him harder, trying to distract them both but

“Turn around,” Geralt tugged his hips until he followed, settling sulkily into Geralt’s lap. He leaned against Geralt’s solid body, cursing his bad timing.

But then Geralt’s hands were on his stomach, dipping into his waistband and _oh_ , maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Pain faded to the back of his mind again. Jaskier’s skin burned where Geralt touched him, his breath was hot on his neck and maybe he had died after all, maybe this was what heaven felt like.

Geralt’s hand, strong and rough, drew him out of his trousers and stroked him confidently. His other hand simply pressed against his abdomen, holding Jaskier tightly against him. 

Jaskier ran his hands down Geralt’s thickly muscled thighs, wishing he could somehow return the favour. It felt strange to simply let another pleasure him. 

And _oh, lord_ Geralt was so much _bigger_ than the people he usually slept with. He hadn’t even seen his cock yet, but the size of his body promised good things. He rarely got to feel so enclosed, so _protected;_ Geralt’s body surrounded him, his body at his back, his arms around his chest, his legs framing his own. Perhaps he should pursue warriors more, but, unusually, the thought of being with another was distasteful to him now. He craved Geralt’s touch and Geralt’s body and Geralt’s mouth and that hunger drove out every other.

He felt so _good_ in Geralt’s hands.

He tipped his head back against Geralt’s shoulder, arching his back. Geralt kissed the side of his face, the corner of his mouth, lips open and wanting. 

He came with a bitten off cry, spilling over Geralt’s fist. He stared, transifxed; his own spend dripping over Geralt’s fingers might be the single most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed. He wasn't even insulted when Geralt wiped his hand on the ground.

He caught his breath, feeling like he was coming down from a high as arousal drained from his body. His head buzzed; he felt sated, warmth spreading from his body into his very soul. Geralt made for a wonderful backrest and when Jaskier tugged him down for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss he went like Jaskier was the only thing that mattered. 

Perhaps because he could feel Geralt’s cock still hard against his lower back. And no one ever said he wasn’t a gentleman. Or, well, a gentleman in bed.

He slid down down until he was lying on the ground again and twisted ( _carefully_ ) so that he was on his stomach facing Geralt’s crotch. 

Geralt made a noise of concern, hands tugging at him with half-hearted effort. He ignored them entirely.

He wasted no time in untying the cord supporting Geralt’s trousers and letting them fall open. His cock was, as anticipated, magnificent. Thick and hard, it curved proudly from his body and only Jaskier’s recent ejaculation allowed him to view it somewhat dispassionately. He wrapped a hand around its velvety-soft skin and drew the cock to his lips. 

Geralt made a wounded noise when he first touched Geralt’s cock with his tongue. Jaskier wanted to be gentle, to learn what Geralt liked best, but he found himself rushing to take it in his mouth, his desire to suck Geralt’s cock overtaking his desire to do it well. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Geralt breathed.

Jaskier raised his eyes to Geralt’s face briefly, not wishing to be distracted, but his face was so beautiful. Lip bitten and red, hair ruffled from Jaskier’s hands. It was a sight he wanted committed to memory, and _fuck_ , he should have been a painter, because this could have been his magnum opus. Geralt looked _wrecked_ , his golden eyes blown wide with lust. His chest heaved, sweat glistening on his skin, a curl of hair sticking to his face.

Geralt touched his face in awe, fingers brushing where his cock entered Jaskier’s mouth. 

When he came he did so quietly, _too quietly_ , bent forward and shaking with it. Jaskier kept him in his mouth easily, swallowing his come. It tasted bitter, slightly sour, but moreover it tasted like _yes_ and _finally_. He kept Geralt’s cock there a moment longer, soothing the overstimulated flesh with a gentle tongue until he was pushed away.

He went easily but ended with his head resting on Geralt’s giant thigh. The surprisingly delicate hair on his legs prickled Jaskier’s face gently as he caught his breath. His mouth was tired and puffy and he felt _amazing_. His wounds were a mere irritation now, a soft throbbing that couldn’t detract from the majesty of the moment. There was even a sunset, glowing pink at the edge of the horizon. 

“Well, anyway, you’ve been thoroughly doctored now. Shouldn’t be any more problems.” He said sleepily.

“I don’t think that’s standard medical procedure.”

“It is in Skellige.” He muttered, closing his eyes. Just for a little bit. Just while the fire was warm, and Geralt's hands were in his hair, and the birds were singing for twilight. 

As sleep overtook him, he felt Geralt hum softly in tune with _Sweet Kiss_.

**Author's Note:**

> I nearly wrote a second fic that was just an essay explaining what clothing Geralt and Jaskier wear in the show/games, but it seemed like it would drag a little. Maybe I'll do one that's just Jaskier helping Geralt tie his hose while giving a history of medieval underwear. If you're interested there's a really good link (https://www.greydragon.org/library/underwear3.html) that sort of gets into what people wore before pants and also into the slutty, slutty hemlines men's fashion kept pushing in 14th century Europe.


End file.
